Festive music crackles through the blown speakers throughout the restaurant. Tacky red-green decorations cover the windows, back of the benches, even the menu above the counter.

Jay and Lee are laughing at Billy, who just dripped some ketchup from his fries onto his shirt. He grabs some napkins, begins smearing the slash into a larger, red stain on the side of his stomach.

“Not funny,” Billy complains. “This shirt was expensive.”

Lee leans on his shoulder, wrapping her hands around his neck and planting a big kiss on his cheek. “It’s just a shirt, babe.”

“Yeah, babe!” Jay laughs some more, ready to stuff his own handful of ketchup-covered fries into his mouth.

Lee tosses the dirty napkin at Jay, then smiles.

It’s been a while since the three of them just hung out like this. No work, no chores, no Bosses. Just three friends having some burgers and fries and shakes and pop. Like the good old times.

The bench beneath Jay’s ass rumbles subtly. He ignores it, focusing on the moment, instead.

“So, when’s the big day, you two?” he asks. They stop their all-to-public display of affection to look at him puzzled. “When are you getting married? You’ve been together long enough, see?”

The sound of holiday music breaks down even more, the rumble picks up intensity. It’s getting cold in here, or is it just him? Lee and Billy don’t seem bothered.

Lee says, “We have lots of time for that.” She leans back into her own space of the bench and picks up a single fry. She doesn’t eat it, not really, she just sort of nurses it, takes tiny bites.

Billy grunts, skin pale, sweat pearling on his forehead. The stain on his shirt begins to grow, soaking through his shirt. Dripping down, through the fingers of his hand trying to hold the stain in.

“I think you’re bleeding, Billy.” Jay’s head suddenly hurts.

Music turns to the a high-pitched whistling. The ground trembles.

Lee stands next to Billy now, without a hint of movement. “You did this, Jason.” Her voice is different, her face, too. Lee, Ash, the Boss—all the same person, all in one. And yet, he she’s someone he doesn’t recognize. Not really. Not any more.

Billy is bleeding out, says, “You did this, man.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

Ash, Lee, the Boss walk away.

“You shot me.”

“I don’t mean to!”

Billy grunts again.

No more music, just the ringing. The rumble, tremble, vibration of a moving train.

A train whistle wakes him up.

Bill grunts, still.

Jay struggles to his knees. Pain at the side of his head. Red blood, sticky, covers the numb hand feeling for the pain. Something in his other hand. Heavy, like a burden, like a calling. The remote detonator. Control, comfort, an anchor in a world adrift.

Bill moans.

Jay finds him half lying in the seat. His head rolled back over the edge next to the headrest. A large stain of blood on his side. He crawls over to Bill, pulls himself up next to him.

“Hey man, are you… are you…” He can’t force himself to say it.

“You shot me, man.” Bill’s voice is weak, barely breaking above a croaked whisper.

“I’m so fucking sorry, Bill.” Jay drags himself into the seat across from Bill. His vision swims, everything circles double and triple before his eyes. And it hurts, everything just fucking hurts.

Bill pulls his head up to look at him—this pale, sweaty face, eyes bloodshot, lips dry and cold.

“Why didn’t you tell me you’re a cop, Bill?” Like the answer would justify any of this.

“Would it have changed anything?”

“Yeah, maybe. No. I don’t know, man. But you lied to me. We are friends, best friends, Bill.” His words are that of anger, but he can’t find the energy to match the tone.

“Lee? Where’s—” The pain in his side reminds Bill that he’s been shot, as he tries to turn and look for her. Reminds him that he’s dying.

“She knocked me out. Ran off. I think she played us, see? We beat each other up, and she is the one that gets out.”

Bill winces through the pain, his head falling back. “I think she took the phone.”

Of course she did. But why, what’s the plan here? If she even has a plan.

“I don’t think I’m making it off this train, Jay.” Bill’s voice dims with each word.

Jay tries to lean forward, reach him. His hand lifts up to grab him, but it still holds the detonator. The one thing he can’t let go in this dumb illusion, this lie he’s living.

“Don’t say that,” he says to Bill, knowing full well that he’s right. It’s not like the movies, see. A bullet to the gut is that, especially on a moving train in the middle of nowhere.

Then again, the train isn’t moving anymore. It stopped quite some time again, even if Jay just comes to realize it now. Maybe, if he can get his own ass up, he can drag Bill out of here. Get him help.

“Don’t bother,” says Bill. Jay was talking out loud to himself, it seems.

Jay strains to laugh. “I really thought you and I were back. And when Ash or Lee or whatever showed up, I felt like a teenager again. Unbreakable, the whole world at our feet. Like the good old times, see?”

“Yeah, the good old times.” Bill coughs out a chuckle of his own. “Fucking bullshit.”

Movement outside the train. Shadows rushing by the window, one after another. Something tells Jay, deep in his gut, that that’s not the help he’s looking for.

“Wish I could have gotten us all out, Jay.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I tried, I really did. Convince you, somehow, to walk away. Turn her in, help me bring her down. But I fucked up, Jay. I panicked, I hesitated. Hell of a cop, eh?” He spits out blood, slumps in his seat.

“Stay with me, asshole!” Jay jumps forward, instantly regretting it. The world spins in circles. “We can still get out, see? Figure this out.”

No answer from Bill. Just a weak breath out.

“Bill? Bill!”

A bunch of people crash into the train car then. Weapons drawn and pointed, three letters on their vest. FBI. They yell something. Scream at Jay. Move in, move close, ready to act at the slightest provocation.

They are trapped.

In his hand, the remote. His last piece of control.

His golden ticket.

Jay turns the key.

Some FBI piece of shit yells something.

Finger on the button. Right here, right now, he’s in control. One hand on the wheel, the foot on the gas.

Time to let go.

Control is an illusion.

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